


darkness is an unending container // i am a gas seeking to fill its volume

by turnover



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Angstangstangst, Hanahaki Disease, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sad Dallon Weekes, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 02:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21029030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnover/pseuds/turnover
Summary: It started on a Friday night.





	darkness is an unending container // i am a gas seeking to fill its volume

It started on a Friday night.

Well, Dallon didn't think choking on bright, white petals would be anyone's ideal end to a day. He’s lounging quietly next to an open window, curled up in the back of the tour bus. Dallon is minding his own business, essentially, when Brendon barges in with a herd of boys to ask him if he wants to go out drinking with them.

Dallon scrunches his face, a growing annoyance blooming in his chest. He knows Brendon goes out every other night and brings home men and women that Dallon never sees or hears from the next day, and he’s no right to stop him.

Brendon intrigued Dallon. From the very first moment Dallon auditioned for Panic!, he was entirely captivated by his presence. Brendon had a way of drawing attention to him without even trying, and Dallon was no exception. Over the course of the last few months touring with Panic! up to becoming an official member, he developed the slightest infatuation on the frontman, which only progressed from there to a full blown crush.

Never like this, though. Dallon rejects Brendon's offer, saying with a strained smile, "No, it's alright, you guys have fun." Brendon bounces off with the other guys trailing behind him.

As Dallon watches him go, he makes the mistake of dwelling on the thought of someone in Brendon's bunk, of someone pleasuring Brendon the way Dallon never got to. He makes the mistake of visualising it, torturing himself with it over and over, and Dallon swears he's a fucking masochist.

That's when it happens. The ache in his chest becomes physical, and soon Dallon is struggling to breathe. He grips the couch, knuckles going white, face draining of blood as he heaves and wheezes in pain. He coughs wetly, tasting the metallic tinge of blood and... flowers?

Dallon looks at his hand. There's a single white petal stained with crimson, stark red against cream, and he is terrified. How the fuck is he coughing petals? The bassist's throat is scratchy and he's drained of his energy, like he just threw up.

Dallon shakes his head, bewildered, refusing to believe his eyes. There's no way he fucking coughed out flowers. He’s only heard of hanahaki once or twice, whispered tales that only float around as a rare, deadly illness. Stems from unrequited love-

Brendon pops into Dallon’s head, his crystalline laugh and tiny snickers resonating around his skull. He exhales heavily and runs a hand through his hair.

Fuck.

-

A week passes, and Dallon is fine, spare for a little fatigue. He’s not coughed up anything at all, so he’s convinced it’s nothing. Maybe Brendon threw something into his food as a prank.

The tour’s been intense, but Dallon enjoys it. He does I Write Sins with Brendon, mouths against the same mic and breathing each other’s air. Dallon won’t admit that his heart aches a little when he sees the glint in Brendon’s eyes, the little light that he reads as “this is for the crowd and not genuine.” Dallon knows he’s not near as attractive as Brendon. He’s way too tall, his hands are too big, his eyes and nose are extremely unappealing and-

Point is, he’ll never live up to be good enough for Brendon. Dallon thinks he’s okay with that, but the coughing disagrees.

-

Another week passes and Dallon is not fine. There’s another hour till the show starts, and instead of prepping he’s heaving over a toilet bowl, the contents swimming with blood and yellow chrysanthemum. This is the third time its happened, and it gets worse each time. He coughs hard one last time before slumping on the tiles. Tears stream down the bassist’s face, purely from the pain - and most definitely not from the thought Brendon doesn’t love him.

Hell, he doesn’t even deserve Brendon, with his concerned frowns when Dallon fumbles and messes up on stage, when he flinches slightly whenever Brendon tells him how beautiful he is, because Dallon knows he’s not. Dallon isn’t good enough for the band, clearly, with how pathetic he is, in love with a man who’d never look at him romantically, never think of him as anything more than a bandmate.

Dallon sobs a little harder, and he realises how completely drained he feels. He reckons if he doesn’t drag himself to bed, he’d fall asleep on the bathroom floor.

On shaking legs, he clutches the sink with white knuckles, pulling himself up. He goes to unlock the door when he hears footsteps shuffling outside and Brendon’s distinctive voice, going, “Dallon?”

He freezes. The footsteps move closer, and he’s right outside now. “Hey buddy, I know you’re in there. Set starts in twenty, you gotta hurry.” Dallon’s breath hitches. He’s been sat here crying for forty minutes?

Brendon hears his breathing stop. It’s strange, really, how the older man can quite literally hear the gears working in his head. “Dallon,” he pauses, “ya alright?”

He gulps and quickly flushes away the flowers and blood, though there’s still the unmistakable stench in the air. Dallon clears his throat and creaks the door open, giving Brendon as reassuring of a smile he can. “M’ good. Sorry about missing prep.”

Brendon immediately scowls when he sees Dallon’s pale face and obvious fatigue. “You sure? You don’t look good at all.”

The bassist sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Just a little sick. Don’t worry about it.”

Brendon seems skeptical, but takes it. “Noticed you’ve been off your game recently. You can’t perform feeling like that. Best go get some rest.” He pats his shoulder. “I’ll tell em you’re not feeling well. Go take a nap.”

Dallon smiles gratefully, and scuttles off to his bunk.

He misses the concerned look Brendon throws behind his shoulder.

\- 

Dallon sleeps for a while. He’s woken up by the rain, and he can’t fall asleep again.

He lies in bed and wonders about his illness, wonders about the flowers sitting inside him, waiting for their chance to spring out of his gut.

He sighs, and goes to get his laptop. He spends the night searching, and he finds that Hanahaki does in fact exist, only that it’s so rare it’s akin to a myth. Dallon reads about it, and how there’s no cure for it unless the person; namely, Brendon; confesses their love to the victim.

Dallon goes stiff. And there’s nothing to describe the slow, crushing feeling in his chest that follows. He thinks it might be his hope evaporating. He knows, Dallon knows in his blood that Brendon would subject himself to a lifetime with Dallon just so he wouldn’t die of the stupid disease. Brendon was just that fucking perfect; he’d put his feelings aside and do what’s best for Dallon and Brendon deserves so much better than just settling for him.

Which is exactly why Brendon can’t ever find out.

\- 

Two days later, Dallon is having a particularly bad one and he swears there’s a whole fucking garden in the toilet bowl. The door isn’t locked since everyone else is out of the bus, which is why Dallon doesn’t expect it when Spencer comes barrelling in while he’s slumped on the floor, trying to get the stars out of his vision.

They both freeze. Pure terror filters into Dallon’s veins. He knows how he looks like; blood dripping lazily off his chin, the smell of lilies running around in the air.

Spencer’s eyes are huge and he slowly lets out a breath. “I just wanted to piss but wow, okay, you’re a mess.”

He springs into action after. Spencer flushes and wipes down the bathroom, then Dallon’s face is attacked with a warm cloth. Spencer hauls Dallon up and helps him to his room, forcing him to stay on the bed while he rummages for comfortable clothes. It’s nice, Dallon muses, to have someone act all motherly and caring for him.

When Dallon is in fresh clothes and can sit up without the room spinning, Spencer glares at him. “When did this start?”

Dallon pulls his hair in frustration. “Couple weeks ago.”

Spencer sighs. “No wonder you looked like shit during shows.” He rubs his eyes. “Who is it?”

“What?”

“It’s Hanahaki, right? I knew someone who had it. It fucking sucks balls, dude. He felt dead enough inside before he actually died.”

Spencer’s eyes are so full of fucking sympathy. Dallon wants to punch it out.

He stays quiet.

Spencer’s frown deepens. “She’s not with the band, right?”

Dallon winces. “Him.”

Spencer splutters. “I’m sorry?”

Dallon starts babbling. “Him. He’s a dude. I’m gay. He’s in the band. It’s not you, don’t give me that look.”

Spencer softens. “Brendon then, obviously-”

“Yes, obviously, we’re a fucking three piece band-”

“Dude, you’re so screwed-”

“I know, for fuck’s sake!”  
Spencer shuts up and the pity look returns. Dallon groans. “Stop giving me that look. Stop it. I’m in love, Christ, not a fucking kicked dog. And don’t you fucking dare say a word to anyone, or I swear to God I will fucking-”

Spencer’s face is grave when he cuts Dallon off. “I know,” He says quietly. “I just. Don’t want you to die, man. Just. What the fuck.” He buries his head in his hands, trying to absorb the severity of the situation. “This is really bad.”

Dallon hears the choked-up rasp in Spencer’s voice. He softens. “I’m the one dying, dude, come on, it’ll be okay,” He pulls Spencer in for a hug and pats his back awkwardly. “Now go take your fuckin’ leak.”

\- 

True enough, Dallon’s secret stays safe. Spencer is closer than he used to be, checking in on him every time he claims to go to the toilet and offers him medicine to soothe the ache in his throat and lungs.

It’s nice - but Dallon can’t find it in himself to be grateful for it. There’s a part of him that whispers to him Spencer’s probably doing it out of obligation, out of pity, he doesn’t actually care if Dallon dies, it might even be better, hell, who knows, all he does is bring the band down; can’t even focus on stage anymore, he’s not as brilliant as Spencer or as charismatic as Brendon and he can’t breathe-

There’s a voice that snips through Dallon’s haze of panic. “Hey, hey, Dallon, Dal, ‘cmon, careful- I’m gonna touch your shoulder, is that okay?”

He can’t register much beyond the cloud of patheticuselessstupid but his lungs recognise that voice and it feels like safe; so Dallon nods and leans his tall frame onto the man, heaving and sobbing into his chest.

They stay like that for a few minutes until Dallon’s vision clears and his breathing is stable. Brendon’s stroking his hair slowly, like he’s a frightened animal that needs comfort and affection, which is stupid, because Dallon is fine-

“Hey,” Brendon whispers softly, noticing his heart rate picking up again, “S’okay. Do you wanna talk about it?”

Dallon shakes his head frantically - he can’t know Dallon’s in love with him, he’ll hate him, he’ll despise him - and stutters out, “It’s fine. It’s really alright. I, uh, sometimes it happens, you know, just a thing that stuck with me when I was a kid.”

Brendon doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he lets it go. He’s about to get up to go and Dallon feels it, the minute twitch of his arm that signals he’s leaving him alone. Dallon reacts instinctively; he grabs Brendon’s arm and whimpers. “Please don’t leave.”

Brendon’s expression softens and he melts back into Dallon. “I won’t, I won’t, come on, let’s go to bed.” He supports Dallon’s lean weight as they limp to the huge mattress- the band finally got a hotel for the night- and collapse inside together, two grown men overlapping in the bed, not willing to let go.

Dallon thinks he should respond with a bout of bloody flowers to all of Brendon’s touches, considering his heart leaps every time, but he feels okay. He feels like he’s okay.

-

Brendon stretches languidly, yawning and blinking blearily as he wakes up. He fumbles around, registering last night’s events. He frowns and squints at the cold, empty space next to him, where Dallon should’ve been, and he can’t suppress the tiny twinge of hurt.

Something’s been off with him, recently. It troubles Brendon. Dallon flinches at anything Brendon does or says, but leans in when Brendon touches. He’s confusing- and he’s not doing well on stage, either, stumbling and missing chords. And with what happened last night, he definitely needs to check in.

He gets up and trods to the kitchen, determined to find Dallon and ask him if he’s been alright. He reckons he’s been neglecting him, he knows how delicate the bassist is; and he should’ve asked, made sure he was doing fine-

Dallon’s in the kitchen, unpacking food he ordered from the concierge. He’s whistling a Dashboard Confessional song and moving silently in the small space, a luxury given the cramp of the sleeper bus. He’s got long pajamas on and it makes him look impossibly elegant and tall.

Brendon grins and sprints onto Dallon’s back, ignoring the hitch in his breath when he jumps up. “G’morning,” he says into the older man’s bony shoulder, his height easily carrying Brendon well above the ground. “Whatcha got there?”

Dallon hums, trying to act unaffected by Brendon’s proximity. “Breakfast,” he says, dropping their plates on the table. It’s been so long since they’ve been able to relax like this, just the two of them, with nothing on them until the show that night. Dallon’s missed this; it’s almost domestic, and he shouldn’t allow himself to enjoy this, doesn’t deserve it, but he does anyway.

“How are you?”

Dallon’s breath catches. “I’m fine,” is his instinctive reply, but he knows neither of them are convinced.  
“Bullshit, you’re not.” He pulls the chair out and points his fork at Dallon. “You’ve been quaky on stage and you barely spend time with the crew now. Spencer knows, I reckon, he’s been helping more. What’s up?”

Dallon stays quiet. No matter how much he wants to blurt out “I’m in love with you, idiot” he knows he can’t ruin what they have like that. All he’ll get is a painful, quicker death.

Maybe that’s what he deserves.

Brendon’s face falls when Dallon says nothing. “You know you can trust me,” he whispers, despair clouding his features. “What is it?”

Dallon squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you,” he wills the tears back. “I’m sorry.”

Brendon goes stoic and Dallon feels guilt bubbling up his throat. “So that’s how it is, huh?” He says coldly and stands up. “You can tell Spencer but not me?”

“No, I swear, it’s nothing like that, Brendon, please-”

“I just- I just want the best for you. I really just want to know how you’re doing.”

A sob wrecks Dallon’s body. Brendon crumples at that. “M’ sorry, baby, don’t cry, it’s okay.”

Dallon folds into the pet name, relishes in it, even though he really shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out through tears. “I just. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to tell you yet. I promise I’ll let you know soon.”

Brendon nods. “I understand.” He smiles softly. “Don’t worry about it. Take your time.” The younger man looks down. “I should probably go.”

Dallon grabs his arm. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, and he means it with every fibre of his being. He means it more than anything.

When the door closes, he finally allows the flowers to pour out.

-

It’s been three months, and Dallon knows he’s dying. He doesn’t want to die, but he knows everyone will be better off. He’s just savouring the moments he gets with the band, with Brendon, and it hurts to know it’s going to end soon.

Would anyone miss him? A few fans, perhaps, but the majority mostly disliked him. He was the one who barged into the band, after Ryan and Jon, smashing through the intimacy the band had shared and ruining the little peace Brendon and Spencer had.

It’s all his fault. And really, who is he to disagree?

-

The tour’s ended a week ago, and Dallon’s glad he managed to survive it all and be there for the fans, even if he felt like shit. He’s been sprawled out in his apartment for the past couple of days, too fatigued to move, spending hours in bed shivering and only sitting up to vomit the flowers into the wastebasket next to him.

He knows the end is near. He’s come to terms with it a while ago. It’s what he deserves, all he’s good for, learning to love and being extinguished from existence because of that love.

He thinks there’s a beauty in it, to have his entire existence built for Brendon. He deserves it. He deserves all the love Dallon has to give, even if it meant nothing to him.

Dallon is okay with dying for Brendon.

-

A few months later, Brendon is sliding out of a cab, limping through grass, wincing every few steps.

He stops before the familiar headstone. It’s carefully devoid of flowers, compared to the others surrounding it, because no one would want to be surrounded by the very thing that killed them - even in death.

Brendon can’t stop the tears, and he doesn’t try to. It hurts him so much in the way it has since Dallon left. Brendon doesn’t think it’s possible to mourn a person so intensely but dear Lord, he did.

Dallon had wormed his way through Brendon ever since they first met, and to learn that you were the cause of your beautiful, beautiful bandmate’s death was soul-strucking. To say he was horrified was the biggest understatement.

He talks. Brendon tells Dallon everything that’s been going on, how devastated the fans are, how devastated he is, how much he misses him. He lies in the grass next to the stone, and he laughs and cries and coughs and breaks, just like the dozen other times he’s been here.

“Today’s the last day.” Brendon mumbles, a tear catching on a blade of grass. “Next time I see you you’ll be able to talk back to me.”

“I love you, you idiot, and I don’t know how you didn’t see that. We could’ve had everything.”

He stands up on shaky legs, breathing slightly raspy, and dusts his jeans. “See you soon,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the stone.

Brendon leaves a trail of bloody flowers behind him.

-

**Author's Note:**

> i hope u liked it!! kudos n comments r the wackiest best bois this is also my first fic on my first ao3 account :D let me know what u guys think !! would love to hear from u 💓
> 
> edit: ive realised that brendon is really not a great person (his history of racist remarks, sexual harassment, etc) and have realised that dallon was also harassed by brendon for his religion, body, voice etc. i regret writing this fic as i do not wish to romanticise what dallon couldve gone through. i am no longer a fan of this pairing and if dallon expresses discomfort with slash fanfiction of him i will take this down immediately.
> 
> that said i do wish to keep this fic up as i spent a great portion of time working on it and the writing process helped me a lot. this fic is important to me and i wish to leave it up - however if dallon is uncomfortable at any point i will take this fic down.
> 
> I DO NOT support this ship anymore.


End file.
